Read Online The Silver Age by Nicholson Gunn - Free Book Online Page B

there, an electric crackle that rippled in the air between them.
    In the lab, he was energized, more excited than he had
been about a project in months, which was a good thing, because the scope of
the work had swollen (by his choice, to be fair, not her demand). There were
black and white shots that would require hand developing, and colour images to
process and correct in order to get the effect he was looking for. They met a
couple of times in cafés to discuss the contact sheets, select the best shots
for printing. And once, ever so casually, she brought him over to her condo, a
steel and glass box on Harbourfront, appointed with modernist furniture and
colourful abstract prints, so that they could spread out a bunch of shots on
her oak dining table. Whatever the setting, their ideas and opinions always
seemed to gel, as if they’d been working together like this for years.
     
     
    When the prints were finished, they met at another café
so that he could hand them off to her. He found her there waiting for him at a
table by the front window. He sat down and, with a proud smile, slid the folder
of prints across to her. She pulled it towards herself, opened it, and began to
leaf through the shots, impassive. He watched her face, surprised by how eager
he was for her approval. Slowly, her expression softened, the edges of her eyes
crinkling, the corners of her lips rising in their little curlicues. As a
photographer for hire, he’d learned how to read his clients’ body language for
signs of approval. This, he could see, was the real thing.
    She looked up at him. “These are absolutely amazing,
Stephan – better than I had any right to hope.” She was grinning.
    “Thanks.”
    Preparing the final prints, he’d been more nervous than
he would have been for a regular job. But now it had all worked out just as
he’d hoped – another victory, as if preordained. He had accomplished the task,
completed the mission she’d set for him.
    “We should celebrate,” she said. “I’ll take you out
somewhere fun next week, buy you a drink.”
    “That really isn’t necessary, Jenny. I’m just happy you
like the work.”
    “I’m sorry, but I must insist.”
    He raised his hands in good-natured acquiescence as she
reached into her purse and wrote out a cheque on the spot for his fee.
     
     
    At her suggestion, they met for their drinks at a lounge
in the Annex, a few blocks south and west of Stephan’s apartment. The feel of
the place was typical of the neighbourhood: all colourful rugs, plush sofas and
orange-shaded lamps – 90’s-style neo-bohemian chic. It was three-quarters full
when they arrived, far from dead, but not particularly lively either. A DJ was
spinning vinyl records near the back, low-key funk music with an eerie,
lolloping rhythm. Stephan’s recent interactions with Jenny Wynne had been
day-lit, business-focused – even when they’d met at her condo’s dining-room
table. Now the mood was shifting. Did that mean the terms of their relationship
were shifting, too?
    Getting ready to go out at the beginning of the evening,
he’d sensed that this entire project they’d just completed had been, among
other things, a kind of test. She’d seen something in him at the magazine
awards, and had singled him out for further study. It was hard to say what that
something might have been. As a journalist, Jenny Wynne was a spotter of
trends, constantly on the lookout for the next new thing. Stephan was still
relatively new to the business, but he had already established himself as a
talent on the rise – perhaps she thought he was on his way to even grander
things. Or maybe it was simpler than that. He was a successful, eligible
straight guy in an industry dominated by women and gay men. That alone made him
a rare and, therefore, desirable commodity.
    They chatted over drinks in a quiet corner of the room,
bending towards each other across a coffee table strewn with vintage magazines:
ancient copies of Esquire